


Crossfire

by witchbane



Series: the bridges we burned (may they light the way home) [2]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gangsters, Alternate Universe - Yakuza, Angst, Blackmail, Enemies to Lovers, Explicit Sexual Content, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Non-Chronological, Russian Mafia, Suspense, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-11
Updated: 2017-10-16
Packaged: 2018-12-26 10:35:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12057219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/witchbane/pseuds/witchbane
Summary: "In me is the word of blood, which will not cease before my end."—Hélène CixousShort stories related to my ficKintsugi, written as part of the YoI Mafia Week.





	1. DAY 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Crossfire](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14500809) by [Sheally](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sheally/pseuds/Sheally)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **DAY 1: LOYALTY || SACRIFICE**
> 
>  
> 
> Before the man, there was the boy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings at the end of chapter.

They found him one week after his Baba died, sitting by the bed with her cold hand clutched in his. The gnarled roots of her fingers were blue and stiff, her eyes cast in a half-open stare towards the ceiling beams. It was too cold for the rot to set in just yet, but still the smell of death lingered in the dacha the way his Baba’s baking used to, seeping through wood and stone and bone until it was in every part of him.

Those first few days were bearable. He had food to spare and wood for the oven, which he kept stoked through the nights, its cast iron belly glowing red-hot as he fed log after log into its maw. Viktor did his best to keep the dacha and his poor Baba’s limbs warm, though she would surely be angry at him for using up all their winter stores so quickly. But that was the only thing he could think to do. That, and sit by her side and wait the morning she failed to get out of bed, as she had done every dawn of his life until then.

Minutes passed, then hours, then days. He knew better, and yet Viktor could not—would not—admit to himself that his Baba was gone. She would never wake up again.

He wanted to stay there longer, would have until he died as well, if not for a nosy neighbor peeking her head through their kitchen window. She screamed when she saw Viktor slumped over the bed, too cold to even shiver now that the fire had gone out, a thin blanket wrapped loosely around even thinner shoulders. He barely noticed when the lock on their door splintered open, when strong arms lifted him up and out of his seat, when the entire neighborhood seemed to crowd into their small cottage to catch a glimpse of something to gossip about. All Viktor could see was the white sheet being drawn over his Baba’s still body before he turned his face away and cried.

And cry he did, endlessly, until it felt like he had shed enough tears for a lifetime. He was borrowing tears from a different time, from a future version of himself who would have none left to spare as sadness and loss wrung them out of him day by day. Viktor cried for every hour he spent beside his Baba, sitting with grim determination as if he could bring her back through sheer force of will. He cried for every second that it didn’t work.

That, he could have handled, the breaking of his own heart. It was the pity he hated. He wasn’t stupid, knew how much they hated his Baba and how much his Baba hated them right back.

_Gossip mongers,_ she called them.

_Disgraceful,_ they muttered right back. _First his mother runs off, now the old woman is dead. Who’s left to take him in? Not me. Not me._

Not them, not his mother, and now not his Baba either. She was dead and buried, had left him to weep alone as they lowered her casket into the grave. It was a thin service, and when it was done the priest took his hand and led him away from the cemetery where a government van was waiting to take him away.

He didn’t know it then, but it would be the first and only time time he saw that grave. If he had, he would have looked back, thrown himself into it too to let the gravedigger turn cool earth over his body and return him to the dust. But now he could only remember the way his Baba used to cradle him in her arms during those winter nights when the cold pried its way through their walls, brushing his hair out of his eyes whenever he cried. 

_You are a good boy, Vitka._ Her hands were rough as they cupped his cheeks, years of work etched into her bones. _But you must learn to be patient. Crawl before you walk and walk before you run._

If he could be good, if he could be better—what would it take to bring her back?

Viktor was six then, already the man of his family of one, and no longer would he cry. Not when they took him from the only home he knew, or when they passed him from house to house and family to family. Not when he lived in overfilled rooms full of other bereft children, or when he heard them crying out in the night for parents who had not wanted them enough to stay.†

Each time he was sent back, they’d look pitifully at his face and say: _You are a good boy, Vitya, but I just don’t think we can keep you._ But behind his back they would whisper: _too_ _troubled, too quiet, too damaged._

No one looked for him when he ran. He was now just one of too many orphans wandering in those post-Soviet streets, their gaunt faces staring out from the crowds and their dirty hands held up for alms. The smart ones picked pockets even as they thanked you for your change—and Viktor wasn’t stupid. He grew deft hands and a hard heart, quick feet, quicker instincts. Sometimes he crawled into the gutter and howled at the night with the stray dogs, until the urge to bury himself vanished under the feral beat of his blood.

If he couldn’t be good then he’d be strong. If he couldn’t die then he would live.

_Vitka, Vitka_. _My Vitka._

Each day his Baba’s voice grew fainter in his memory, the image of their small dacha a distant dream he could never reach.

It was snowing the day he met Yakov Feltsman. A six-month hunger gnawed at his belly, a year-long tear in his heart from missing home. Viktor squatted on the side of the street, his shaking hand held up and out. He could feel his toes blackening and curling inside his battered shoes, his socks damp and useless.

Viktor heard the approach before he saw it, the crunch of snow underfoot and the jangling of someone’s hand reaching for the change in their pocket. Two shining black shoes stepped into his line of sight, leading up into dark pants, a heavy coat, a felt hat jammed over a dignified head. The grim-faced man handed him a smattering of change which jingled in Viktor’s cupped palm. 

“Thank you,” Viktor whispered, forcing his cracked lips into a smile even as his fingers slipped the heavy watch from around the man’s wrist. “Thank you very much, sir.” He cast his eyes down and waited for the man to walk away, the skin-warmed metal sharp against his ribcage.

The shining black shoes stayed put.

A cold sweat broke across his back. Viktor began to tremble, not entirely from the cold, the coins rattling in his closed fist harder and harder with each terrifying second that passed. The chatter around them faded into white noise in his ears, as if there were a wall between them and the rest of the world. He looked up and saw people passing by with their faces turned away, the man looming over him with a frown deepening on his face.

It was instinct that drove Viktor to run—his knees snapped up from his crouch, his head ducked down as he bolted down the street and into an alley where he could slip past a loose fence. 

He wasn’t fast enough. A hand clamped down hard on his shoulder and Viktor screeched, twisting, kicking away. The coins clattered into the snow in a shining arc, and with it the golden wristwatch.

The man’s grip tightened the more Viktor struggled, unmoved by the scratching and screaming. Soon enough, Viktor had tired himself out. His body slipped limply to the frozen ground, where strong hands lifted him up by the armpits and dangled him in the air.

“Ungrateful boy.” Viktor lifted his head, staring unblinkingly as the man spoke. “I give you money to eat and you steal. Do you know what I do to little thieves?”

With a snarl—like he learned from the dogs—Viktor leapt and set his teeth against the man’s throat. Blood filled his mouth, his nose. His mouth stung as he bit into his tongue. Violence tasted like rust, of iron and salt.

He barely registered being thrown back into the wall, his limbs sprawled like a marionette with its strings cut. The man reared back with his hands to his neck, a trickle of blood seeping through his fingers. Shock washed over his face and he opened his mouth to shout, or maybe to snarl.

But then he laughed. The unexpected sound burst out of him loudly, and he kept laughing even as he tied the scarf around his neck even tighter to staunch the blood. He walked up to Viktor and picked him up again by the armpits, though further away this time.

“You’re feral,” the man said, “like a street dog. You bite the hand that feeds you.” Yet it was not anger in his voice—it was amusement. A long silence passed over them, the man staring at him and Viktor staring back undaunted. “What’s your name?”

_Vitka, my sweet Vitka. You be a good boy for your Baba._

“Viktor,” he said through the blood in his mouth. He ran his tongue over the flat edge of his teeth, dipping into the shallow nick he’d gotten in the fight.

“Viktor—Viktor is a good name, a strong one.” The man set Viktor down on his feet. “When was the last time you ate? A while, probably. You’re too skinny. Come on then. You can eat until you burst at my house.” The man turned, his dark coat billowing with the wind, but Viktor didn’t follow. “I said _come_. Or I’ll leave you behind.”

A black car pulled up by the mouth of the alley. Viktor stared as a black suited guard stepped out to open the door, bowing low to the man. Did he want to follow? Something told him _no_ , an insistent voice trapped beneath his ribcage that must have been his heart. The sound of it was drowned out by the growl of his stomach, which rumbled through him at the promise of food.

“What’s your name?” Viktor edged closer, hesitant. “Hey, mister, what’s your name?”

“To you, it’s Mister Feltsman,” the man said. He climbed into the car and looked at Viktor. “Are you coming?”

Viktor looked behind him, into the dark maw of the alley. The man was too far away to reach him now. He could run, crawl underneath the hole in the fence and lose him for good. A streetlamp flickered on and its light caught the gold glint of the watch lying in the snow. 

He picked it up, looked back at the alley again, and stepped towards the car. “Yes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Death of a parental figure; parental abandonment; violence.
> 
> †[Orphans in Russia](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Orphans_in_Russia): As the Soviet Union moved towards collapse in 1991, the orphan population grew to more than 59,000. Many of them are social orphans—children who have one or more parents/guardians still alive, but who have no adults looking after them for a variety of reasons. Russia has both orphanages and foster care systems, moving towards the latter in recent years.
> 
> **
> 
> First of my short stories for YOI Mafia Week! The next chapter of Kintsugi is still in the works, don't worry! It's just taking me some time to get my head straight after my incredibly stressful move so please have patience. :)
> 
> I hope this satisfies some of your craving for backstory. ;) More to come.  
>    
> As always, thank you for your continued support! Your kudos, bookmarks, etc. mean everything to me. I love all your comments and I read them often, because you all are so nice and inspire me to write. Find me at my YOI blog [witchsbane](https://witchsbane.tumblr.com/) on tumblr if you wanna chat/ask me questions, and I made a [twitter](https://twitter.com/witchsbane) now too! Find out more about my writing and how to keep me plied with coffee by following me there.


	2. DAY 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **DAY 2: MARKINGS || EXTRAVAGANCE**
> 
> Set in a future chapter of _Kintsugi_.
> 
> Pairing: Viktor/Yuuri

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings at the end of chapter.

The pickup was the same as Yuuri remembered over ten years ago: a hulking mass of a machine, its dark blue paint washed out unevenly by the sun and chipping in many places. Something in the engine rattled when he turned on the ignition, sputtering a familiar protest as he backed out of the drive and into the empty street. As he did, Yuuri caught a glimpse of Mari in the rearview mirror. She stood just inside the genkan, her face a blank mask while a cigarette burned to ashes in her hand.

He should have expected that she'd be up to see him off; she was an early riser, if she even slept at all that night. Once more he was grateful for Mari's strength, how she bore the weight of losing him again and again each time he selfishly crawled back home so his parents wouldn't have to. His mother would have cried, his father begged him not to go and damn the consequences. But Mari understood best what he needed. There were no goodbyes between them, just a long glance that was full of promise and hope.

_We'll see each other again._

Driving the pickup was strange, almost surreal. Yuuri was ten the last time he'd been in that car, scrunched into the front seat with his knees tucked under his chin. Mari chain-smoked her nerves away, shaking fingers steadied only by the cigarettes she lit one after another. Beads of sweat welled up around their temples as the humid night poured in through the open windows. Yuuri remembered that drive so clearly that sometimes, when he closed his eyes, he thought he was still there. He could taste the salt dissolved in the hot air, could smell the smoke which clung to their skin and clothes like a lingering kiss.

It was Viktor who sat beside him now, rather than Mari. When Yuuri opened his eyes he saw the other man's slumped shoulders, the way his head bowed against the glass to watch the scenery pass by. He looked so incredibly small just then, in the old clothes Yuuri's father had given them to wear. It was an utterly alien look on Viktor, who seemed to have lived his whole life in bespoke suits—not shirts worn-to-softness, in pants so baggy they had to cinch the tightest notch of their belts. A baseball cap was pulled low over his head, shading his eyes from view.

They drove in complete silence, dawn slipping into day slipping into night. Fukuoka was no longer safe, and all the major roads would be watched for their arrival. Instead they took the long way round, where the only illumination came from the dusty yellow beam of their headlights and the scattered buildings glowing in the night like signposts.

It was nearing midnight when Yuuri saw it: a squat building sitting at a bend in the road, a neon marquee flickering every so often to announce a vacancy. Yuuri felt a twinge in his back and longed for his room back home, where the clean sheets smelled like the bulk bargain-priced soap his mother bought for the inn. Viktor started when they pulled into the half-empty lot, jerked away from his thoughts by their juddering break.

"We're stopping?" Viktor asked, stretching out in his seat. He winced when the movement jostled his rib.

"You need a bed," Yuuri said. He grabbed his backpack and counted the cash in his pocket—certainly not enough to stay in a hovel like this every night, but the expense was worth it for a few hours of sleep. "And I need to rest. This is the best we can do for now, until we have access to more funds."

The man at the front desk took his cash greedily, tossing him the keys before Yuuri could change his mind. He'd asked for the cheapest vacancy and got what he paid for: a box of a room barely big enough to move, a lumpy bed that took up so much floor space they barely got the door open, and a bathroom that looked like it hadn't been cleaned in weeks. And still, it was not the worst place Yuuri had ever stayed.

He tossed the bag onto the floor and fell back onto the bed, looking up to see Viktor lingering by the door. "Are you going to stay there all night?" he asked, softening at the hesitant step Viktor took towards him. Yuuri reached out to cup Viktor's side, pressing gently through his shirt at the bandages covering his wound. "How bad is it?"

As if all he needed was the invitation, Viktor folded immediately into him. They sat for many long moments tangled like that: thigh against thigh, arms wrapped up in each other. Viktor's head was pillowed on his shoulder, a hand tight around his wrist. Yuuri ran careful fingers over Viktor's rib, where he knew the wound ached, though the other man would never tell him so.

"It doesn't matter," Viktor replied after too long a pause. The edges of his voice were softened by the dark. Neither of them bothered to turn on the lights, and when Yuuri looked over he saw Viktor illuminated by the neon glow streaming in through the window. The strips of light hid his face from view, shadowing his eyes and the hard set of his mouth. Yuuri reached up to take the cap off, smoothing back his silver hair so that it no longer lay flat and pressed into his forehead. Like that, Viktor looked a little more like himself and less the silent stranger that sat next to Yuuri all day. "I'm okay."

With a weary sigh, Yuuri slipped off the bed. "Let's redress the bandages and go to sleep," he said, crouching down to fish a first aid kit from the bag. He heard Viktor shuffling behind him, and when he turned back the other man was occupying nearly the entire mattress, which was so small that his feet hung off the edge as he reclined. Yuuri sat in the clear space he left and carefully rucked up the shirt to the collar, thumbing the rough gauze taped down to his side.

So close. A little to the left and just a touch deeper would have pierced the lung.

The thought hurt so much that Yuuri felt his own breath catch, as if the knife had passed through him instead.

Yuuri knew more than anyone how much he stood to lose already. What he didn’t know was when the idea of staying with Viktor became less a punishment and more a wish—a tender yearning to stay tucked beneath his arm and pass the quiet nights the way they did in Hasetsu.

But that was only a dream, soon carried away to some other shore by the ocean he left behind. Two things were absolutely clear: going home meant losing Viktor, and having him meant giving up home. And while the heart wants what it wants, sometimes it wanted too much of the things it couldn’t have.

He took apart the bandages and cleaned the sound, applied a new layer of vaseline before covering it with a clean pad of gauze. It was still raw, but no longer bleeding. The stitches were holding up and nothing looked infected, which was a relief. When he was done, Yuuri leaned over and pressed his lips to Viktor’s chest, right above the steady beat of his heart. “I’m sorry.”

Long fingers carded through his hair, the touch so soft and slow that it nearly put him to sleep. “Yuuri,” Viktor said. “Yuuri, it’s not your fault. I shouldn’t have—“ He choked on those last words, could not or would not say them out loud.

“We don’t have to talk about it,” Yuuri whispered. “Not now, not ever.” When he sat up and saw Viktor’s face, he knew what the answer would be.

Viktor slid a hand around the back of his neck, pulled him up the bed for a kiss. “Not now,” he agreed, speaking into Yuuri’s lips, more motion than sound. His hands were trembling. “Just be with me. Be with me here, Yuuri.”

The heat of Viktor’s mouth was a dizzying thing, cloying and sweet, like too much wine gone straight to his head. Yuuri was helpless before that kiss, as he always was to Viktor, and so he let himself relish it instead—the way their lips moved against each other, the way their breaths synced as if they were breathing as one. They fit together so seamlessly that it seemed impossible that they should have been two people, that they could ever come apart.

Yuuri had no name for whatever it was between them, but it pulled them together from the start. He was caught from the moment they met, before that even, wound tighter and tighter around the trap that was Viktor Nikiforov and into that present moment.

He didn’t believe in fate, in things that were _meant to be_ , but he believed in this: the deepening of their kiss, the hand cupping his neck, the eyelashes that dragged along his cheek with every languid blink. Viktor kissed him like he was drinking him in, like a dying man swallowing mouthful after mouthful of water, like Yuuri was necessary for life itself.

Viktor dragged him in closer, with urgency, so that Yuuri had to brace himself against the bed lest he fall over the other man. A hand slipped beneath the hem of his shirt, a warm weight at the base of his spine as it tugged him fully onto the bed. With a breathless gasp Yuuri followed, breaking the kiss, on his hands and knees above Viktor.

Hesitant to put any strain on the injury, Yuuri resisted, even as Viktor tried to pull him atop his own body. Instead he settled his weight over Viktor’s hips and on his own calves, palm braced on the bedspread. “This okay?” he asked. The hand on his spine continued its slow caress, up and down, fingers following a pattern only Viktor knew.

“More than,” Viktor replied. He tilted his chin, parted his lips for a kiss that Yuuri willingly gave as they fell into each other's orbit once again.

Their kiss was harder this time, an electric pressure that would surely leave their lips red and bruised— _marked_. Viktor, dark-eyed with desire beneath him, moaned as Yuuri bit as his mouth and sucked at his tongue, opened and offered himself to be devoured. It was _this_ Viktor that made Yuuri ache, to give and to surrender all at once. The one clawing at the back of his shirt for purchase, the one rutting up into the seat of his ass in desperation.

His hands ran up Viktor’s chest, pausing briefly to caress the inflamed skin around the bandages, continuing upwards to the soft cotton shirt wound around his collar. As gently as he could, Yuuri helped Viktor undress, lifting his arms out of his shirt and using it to pillow his head against the hard mattress. Yuuri left a lingering kiss on the other man’s ear as he did so, and felt with pleasure the sharp breath sucked out into his throat and the fingers clutching tight at his hips.

He looked down and swore  his heart stopped. Viktor’s pale skin was a canvas for the stripes of neon light cutting into the room—blues and pinks and purples pooling over the planes of his body, touching everywhere Yuuri wanted to be. He could believe in a god knowing Viktor like this, bared to Yuuri like something holy with the light catching a halo in the silver of his hair.

There was so much he wanted to say, the words on the precipice of his tongue, but it was Viktor who spoke first, reaching out to cup his jaw. “I wonder how I could ever think you were anything but beautiful, Yuuri Katsuki.” Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes, unexpected and unwelcome. He tried to wipe them away, only to be stopped by Viktor’s hand around his wrist. Viktor kissed his palm once, twice, then pressed it over his own heart, which beat so frantically under his skin that Yuuri thought it might burst. “This is all for you.”

Yuuri surged forward, suddenly, intensely desperate for Viktor’s mouth against his. Their teeth clacked together, hands tearing viciously at their remaining clothes until it was only skin on skin on skin. Beneath him, Viktor strained, rocked hard and hot into the cleft of his ass. Yuuri shuddered and ground down into the motion, his hands perched on Viktor’s shoulders, his neck bowed. His cock felt heavy, sliding across the taut line of Viktor’s stomach, and he gasped when hands dug into the meat of his ass, pushing him deeper into the thrust.

And then he was on his back, the breath knocked out of him. Viktor’s body crowded him into the dirty sheets, his hands shifting Yuuri’s legs to wrap around his hips. The wet heat of his mouth found the pulse of Yuuri’s throat, sucked there, bit into it with a growl when the head of his cock brushed passed the rim and nearly caught, again and again, as he moved. 

The thought of being fucked open like that made Yuuri’s mouth run dry, every nerve in his body alight as Viktor sucked dark marks into his collar. It was dizzying, it made him throb, twisting himself so that he could wrap his arms around Viktor and cling for dear life as he drowned himself in this moment. 

If Yuuri was water then Viktor was light, a shining beacon in the dark of his heart, sometimes so beautiful it hurt to look but impossible to turn away from.

Viktor fumbled with something on the bed, and it was only when Yuuri heard the sound of objects scattering to the floor that he remembered the first aid kit they’d abandoned. A finger, dipped in vaseline, pressed against his hole but no further. Not until Yuuri was gasping, biting out his, “ _Yes, yes!_ ” into Viktor’s shoulder so hard that he broke skin. 

The finger twisted into him once, twice, slick and wet and curling. Viktor’s languid pace a tease of what Yuuri really wanted. It was at odds with all his prior urgency, and when the second finger came it was just as slow, just as gentle as the one before that Yuuri felt at once too impatient and achingly tender. He moaned in frustrated desire against the bloodied skin of Viktor’s shoulder, tasted the beads iron and salt that welled up where his teeth had sunk and pressed a kiss there in apology. “More,” he said, hating to beg but unable to disguise the neediness of his own voice. “I want—I need—“ 

“I have to—“ Viktor mumbled into his jaw, kissing the flushed skin there, thrusting his fingers again and again inside Yuuri as if to drive him crazy. He already was, so much, with how much he wanted. “Just a little more, ми́лый. Can you take a little more for me?” And when Yuuri nodded, Viktor added the third, his movements and breaths quickening in anticipation. 

Yuuri nearly sobbed. He was a taut ball of need, of tension and tightness as his muscles stretched to take Viktor into him. He pushed greedily at the sensation of fullness and wanted more. “Viktor, _please_ , ah!“ 

“Will you let me? Yuuri, ми́лый, will you turn over for me?” Too eagerly did Yuuri turn onto his stomach, surrendered himself to the soft praises which fell in kisses from Viktor’s lips. Up his spine and across his shoulders, over every scar etched into the expanse of his skin. “Beautiful,” Viktor said, and, “Amazing,” and, “I want you,” until Yuuri could feel himself shaking with emotion. He buried his face in his arms to stifle wet gasp that tore itself out of him, angling his hips up with every stroke of those fingers working him loose. Getting him ready. 

Then they pulled out. He barely had time to register the loss of Viktor’s fingers before something else replaced them, easing hot and hard and insistent between his legs. Yuuri let out a stuttering whine as Viktor sank into him inch by slow inch, the throbbing head of his cock stretching the rim one last time before popping in, the entire length following soon after in one smooth motion made smoother by the lube. Viktor stopped when he was flush against the back of Yuuri’s thighs, which trembled from the effort of having to hold himself upright. All he wanted to do was collapse, let the tension of the day drain out of him and into the bed. Steady hands soothed his sides, his back, rubbing small circles on his flanks.

“Still okay?” Viktor asked, his voice tight and just on the razor’s edge of control. 

That alone was enough to set his nerves alight, his muscles tightening around Viktor even as he tried to get used to the sensation of being that _full_. He shifted back slightly, nearly kicking out at the spark of pleasure that lanced up his spine, moaning into his arms instead as he followed the feeling back onto Viktor’s cock. “ _Yeah_ ,” he said, squeezing his eyes shut. If he did, he could almost forget about the dirty sheets and the shabby motel room, focused entirely on the body behind him. On the man in his bed, in his heart. “Move, Viktor, _please._ ” 

So Viktor did—leaning away slightly and then snapping his hips forward _hard_. It made Yuuri’s head spin, arch his back into the way Viktor began fucking him open at a steady pace, small increments turning into larger ones. First an inch, and then more. Until, eventually, only the head of his cock remained in Yuuri, teasing it back inside with measured strokes. 

The sound of their skin slapping together was obscene, slick with sweat, with lube. Yuuri bit into his arm and gagged on the spit that had begun to pool in his mouth, at the moan he choked back as Viktor’s cock struck a spot that made stars flare up behind his eyes. His cock was on fire between his legs, heavy and full, aching for stimulation though he knew that just one touch would end him.

“Viktor— _Viktor_ —“ 

Said man’s hands grew tighter around his hips, enough to bruise. A hot flush swept across his neck when Viktor leaned over to kiss the nape and stayed there with his chest stuck to Yuuri’s back. He continued to thrust, huffing out rough breaths as he pushed forward, _deeper_ , _more_ into Yuuri. 

" _So good,_ Yuuri. So, so good for me." Viktor sounded punch-drunk, voice like honey pouring into Yuuri's ears, thick and golden and warm. "I want you, I want you, _I want you._ " He hitched Yuuri's hips higher, punctuated his words with hard thrusts that Yuuri felt all the way up his spine. 

Yuuri stretched his arms over his head, whining when it pushed Viktor deeper into him. _More, more_ , his body begged, but what more he could ask for Yuuri didn't know.

Somehow, Viktor did—splayed a strong hand across his stomach, thumb running back and forth the base of Yuuri's sternum in a gesture that said, _I'm here, I'm here_. With the other he pinned Yuuri's hands against the wall, their fingers interlocked, to brace them both for the slow grind of his hips. Again and again, no longer thrusting, just carving a space for himself inside the hollow of Yuuri's body.

It was so much, _too much_. Not enough.

Yuuri felt his orgasm long before it happened. It was sizzling, electrifying heat poured into his body. It was the tense coil of his stomach twisting into itself. It was the throb of his cock against the bed, the way he clenched around Viktor _so tight_ that his legs locked and his toes curled in on themselves hard enough to crack. He nearly screamed when Viktor's fist wrapped around him, fingers still slick with the vaseline smearing the precome down his length, pumping him once, twice, three times before Yuuri lost count.

 It was enough. He came with a punched-out cry, with Viktor's cock so deep inside him that Yuuri knew he would feel it for hours after. Maybe days. The thought made him shudder even more, his hole hot and grasping, even as he spilled himself over Viktor's hand and dirtied the sheets even further. 

His hands lost purchase on the wall, boneless, and his head dropped down to the sheets to muffle the cry that might have been Viktor's name. 

Hands were on his hips again, urging him backwards, onto the still hard cock grinding against his prostate. Viktor's fingers dug into his skin. Viktor's voice was whiskey-dark in his ears. "Yuuri," he said. " _My Yuuri_ ," and came too, stilling as he bottomed out, his teeth bared at the back of Yuuri's neck in a growl. 

 _My Yuuri, mine, mine._  

It wasn't true. But in the dark of that hotel room, with the neon lights still bending the night into surreal shapes around them, they could both pretend it was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Explicit sexual content; treatment of injury; (very light) blood.
> 
> **
> 
> Second _incredibly_ late entry for Day 2 of YoI Mafia Week. Let's all pretend that there are motels like this in Japan because I don't know and nothing on the internet is telling me either way. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> I also didn't proofread for very long....so typos are abundant. Will fix later lmao.
> 
> As always, thank you for your continued support! Your kudos, bookmarks, etc. mean everything to me. I love all your comments and I read them often, because you all are so nice and inspire me to write. Find me at my YOI blog [witchsbane](https://witchsbane.tumblr.com/) on tumblr if you wanna chat/ask me questions, and I made a [twitter](https://twitter.com/witchsbane) now too! Find out more about my writing and how to keep me plied with coffee by following me there.


	3. DAY 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **DAY 3: GLOVES || RECONNAISSANCE**
> 
> The choices we make, and the lives we leave behind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings at end of chapter.

“You shouldn’t be drinking.”

Mila snorted, tilted back the flute of champagne and drained it dry out of spite. A decision she regretted almost instantly once she tasted how bitter it was, the fizz making her throat tingle unpleasantly, but she was determined not to cough it all out in front of Viktor lest she lose what little face she had. Her cheeks were red by the time she finally managed to swallow it all down. Viktor, on the other hand, merely looked down at her unimpressed, sipped at his own drink, then wordlessly turned back to the crowded ballroom.

It was certainly a sight to see. Mila had never before been in such an extravagant place—all high vaulted ceilings and tall French doors, marble flooring with gold accents etched into its polished surface. Two chandeliers sparkled overhead, while a small orchestra played something lively from another corner. No expense was spared; every inch of the room was decorated with tasteful baubles that likely cost more than any one family was going to spend that year alone on the holidays.

And not to mention _the people_.

There were so many beautiful people that Mila thought, for a moment, that she was caught in some bizarre dream. She couldn’t look in any direction without being overwhelmed by them: models whose familiar faces were plastered on posters on every street, socialites who made a living screeching on television displays in department stores, men and women hanging on the arms of other far less beautiful beings and smiling at them coyly as if they mattered. They were each dressed like dolls in lavish silk and satin and lace; they all wore their obscene wealth around their throats and on their fingers and in their hair.

Mila’s hand twitched when a woman swept too close by her, the smooth luster of a pearl bracelet just inches from her fingertips. She smothered the itch to snatch it, ground it down beneath her heel and into dust. _You are better than that now_ , Mila scolded herself. It was a familiar mantra that she’d been telling herself for many nights already, hoping that someday soon it would stick. _You are no longer that girl—that street rat. Be better than that._

As if reading her mind, Viktor spoke: "You can take the girl off the streets, but I suppose it's much harder to do it the other way around."

She glared sharply at him, forgetting herself in her anger. Not that it stopped her much once she remembered who exactly she was dealing with. Viktor Nikiforov, a mob boss in the making. Mila had no idea why he'd chosen her as his new pet project, but it certainly wasn't because she was scared of him—no matter who he thought he was. "What is _that_ supposed to mean?"

Of course, he definitely wasn't scared of her either.

"It means that your desperation is showing," he had no qualms in telling her. A flush of shame swept across her cheeks. The insult stung, the words ringing too true. "I didn't bring you here to poach a few cheap trinkets—"

"You think those are _cheap_?" Mila asked incredulously, then snapped her mouth shut so quickly that her teeth clicked. At once she felt the acute shame of having just proven him right. _Again_. She sulked into her empty glass and wished someone would come around to hand her a new one. "Why _did_ you bring me here anyway?"

"I needed a date," Viktor said, smiling a little at Mila's dour look. He flicked his fringe back, and Mila saw heads turn to look at them—at him. "You should be grateful. There are some people who would literally kill to be invited to the Crispino Famiglia's holiday party."

"So why me? Why not take someone that's actually going to be impressed?"

"Because I don't need you to be impressed—I need you to be useful. Take a walk with me." Viktor held out his arm for Mila to loop hers through, then whisked them around the edge of the ballroom. He plucked the empty glass from her hands and replaced it with a fresh one from a passing waiter, despite his earlier warning that she shouldn't drink. She sipped at it as they moved, straining to hear the sound of his voice just under the din of the crowd. They seemed to part just as he approached, though Viktor took no notice. "What do you see here, Mila?"

She wrinkled her nose, glancing around the room for the answer to his question. Or at least the answer she knew he wanted. However, nothing stood out to her in particular—save the performance of wealth so excessive that it was almost indecent. "Rich people?" she answered hesitantly, fully expecting a look of disdain and was surprised by the smile that turned up the corner of his lips.

" _Filthy_ rich people," Viktor amended. "And do you know what filthy rich people want most of all?"

"Money," she answered more confidently.

Viktor shook his head. They stopped walking and he turned to face her fully. 

It was still strange finding herself under the full force of his attention. Viktor had plucked her from the streets some three years ago, after she was bold—or stupid—enough to pick his pocket, but rarely had she seen him since then. She spent most of her time with Lilia and her students instead, watching the older girls paint their mouths cherry red and their eyelashes the black of an oil spill. She sat at their feet, listening to them trade gossip about which client liked what and who paid the best and who left marks and who didn't. All talk she was familiar with, all talk which she willfully ignored—as if, by doing so, she could stay the possibility of it ever happening to her, though she knew it was also more likely than not. The options for girls like her were limited, she knew well enough, and were rarely in their power.

"What is it then?"

"Entertainment," he said. The word was enough to strike a chord of fear inside of her. "They're looking for something to keep them occupied until the next pretty little thing comes along." He tugged at a strand of her hair, colored bright as crushed cherries and no longer the mousy brown she inherited from her mother. “Like the woman throwing this party, for instance. I heard she has a soft spot red hair.”

She ripped his hand from her face, her nails digging into his wrist through the glove. “You brought me here to be someone’s plaything?” _Someone’s whore._ The _no_ worked its way up her throat in a snarl.

“You are no one’s plaything unless you let them make you one.” Mila stilled. Her heart was pounding, her lip trembled as she stifled the urge to bite down. “Rarely do we get to decide the way the world sees people like us. You can walk out of here, but I’m willing to bet you won’t make it much farther than the gutter I found you in. Stay, and I’ll give you the chance to become something more—to belong only to yourself.”

Words failed her now. He had to be lying; it sounded too good to be true. This was snake oil being rubbed into the bitter core of her heart, promising her everything she once thought out of reach.

But there was only naked truth in his eyes. One that came, Mila knew, from having lived it himself. She recognized it in the desperate faces of the people she’d known from the streets, in the resigned expressions of Madame Lilia’s girls, sometimes in her own eyes as she stared at her reflection in the mirror. _People like us,_ Viktor said. She wondered what choices he had to make to claw himself out of that hole and to the top, and if it had all been worth it.

“So what are you going to choose?”

She heard footsteps approach from behind, a lilting voice calling out in greeting: “Viktor Nikiforov—I’m so glad you could make it. My brother and I weren’t expecting to actually see you here.”

Of course it was. Anything was better than going back.

Mila steadied her breath, her heart, and turned. The smile on her face was genuine as she held out her hand. “Hello! I don’t think we’ve been introduced yet, miss…?”

A vision in red smiled at her, all burnished skin and violet eyes. The woman held out her own hand, which was covered up to the elbow in a silky black glove. “Crispino. But you can call me Sara.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Mentions of prostitution; mentions of abuse.
> 
> Just to clarify, Mila only meets Sara here. They become friends...for now.
> 
> **
> 
> Day 3 about 4 days late tof YoI Mafia Week. Lmao but I'll get all of them done eventually. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> Ignore the mistakes. Will fix later lmao.
> 
> As always, thank you for your continued support! Your kudos, bookmarks, etc. mean everything to me. I love all your comments and I read them often, because you all are so nice and inspire me to write. Find me at my YOI blog [witchsbane](https://witchsbane.tumblr.com/) on tumblr if you wanna chat/ask me questions, and I made a [twitter](https://twitter.com/witchsbane) now too! Find out more about my writing and how to keep me plied with coffee by following me there.


	4. DAY 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **DAY 4: WEAPONS || ROSES**
> 
> Acts of mercy, and acts of weakness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings at end of chapter.

_Would the rain ever stop?_

Viktor wasn’t sure. There was something terribly apocalyptic about it that night that made him think otherwise—the way it fell in rippling sheets from the dark sky, threatening to flood the black streets of Saint Petersburg. He was not a religious man by any means, but instantly he thought of the story of Noah’s Ark. It was forty days and forty nights of rain then, of cowering cold and desperate in the belly of that great ship waiting for the storm to pass. They few were the chosen, Noah and his family and those animals, and so secure were they in the knowledge of their god’s blessing that they left the rest of the world to drown.

Not that he could blame them. Like him, they were survivors too. Given the chance, Viktor knew he would have crawled his way onto that Ark—forget everyone else down below. It seemed a miracle to him that, even as the passengers prayed for the waves not to swallow them whole, they did not devour each other instead.

Three days was no great flood. But even if it were, Viktor knew there would be nothing holy about it now. Only the sinners would be saved this time around, the ones willing to eat each other up. The rich and mighty were holed up safe in their skyscrapers of Babel, kings unto their own, beholden only to themselves.

Viktor learned how to be just like them, though it was strange to think that he could ever belong to that world. Too often did he slip back into the past, into the murky waters of his memory that still remembered weakness, feeling like an imposter in his own skin. He’d been _Bratva_ now far longer than he’d ever been _Vitka_ , and he wondered how so much time could have passed—ten years and more—between the gutter he came from and the man he was now.

He sighed, arranged his braid to lay flat over his shoulder, and adjusted the scope on his rifle. This was not the time for distractions; lofty thoughts could wait for when the job was done.

The building across the street was empty. Or, at least, someone tried very hard to make it seem so. Its windows were drawn tight against the storm, its lights turned off, and it looked for all the world like an empty husk sitting on that damp patch of concrete. He might have thought so too if he didn’t know better, believed the scene painted by its crumbling features and the signs which marked it as CONDEMNED.

But there were shadows inside. Viktor could sense them slipping like eels through the watery dark; amorphous shapes flickered beyond the clouded glass, breaking the blackness.

All he needed to do was wait, bide his time until the right moment to strike.

He had practice with that—the waiting. Viktor had been trailing this target just shy of a month, following him everywhere from shady clubs to brothels to banks. It was not his first assignment, but it was the most important he’d ever taken alone. A job that should have taken him a scant few days stretched on for weeks without a seeming end. Viktor needed to be sure before he ever pulled that trigger, before he ever crossed that line, that this was the man who Yakov wanted dead.

Because Ivan Bariev wasn’t just any other man. Once, he was Yakov’s most faithful friend and ally. Once, the one they called the _derzhatel obschaka_. Together, he and Yakov built an empire from nothing but their blood and sweat and tears, and in the red streets of Leningrad they ruled like kings—with iron fist, with sleight of hand.

But things changed in those last few months, the shameful story unfolding as Viktor dug it up piece by piece. Bariev got too greedy, then too sloppy. What started off as a dip in the pot soon became more, and more, and more, until he was gorging himself nightly on the spoils of the brotherhood. Bariev made no secret how much he loved his whores, and in turn they loved his money and took him for everything he was worth.

Not that any of those were sins in their line of work. Greed was normal; expected, even. It was only when Bariev—desperate for a warm mouth around his cock, a young body in his bed—traded their secrets to line his empty pockets that he sealed his fate.

_There’s a mole_ , Yakov told him. _Deal with it._

Viktor knew what that meant, though the act itself remained unspoken. There was only one way to deal with a traitor, and it came at the end of the barrel of a gun.

Loyalty. Obedience. Those were part of the _ponyatiya_ of their brotherhood, the oaths they swore to and for one another. Theirs was a bond more indelible than blood—both its highest price, and its greatest reward.

Yakov knew who the mole was, of that Viktor had no doubt; nothing escaped the Papa for very long, especially when it came to his own men. But it was a task he left to Viktor instead, entrusted him to finish, and he’d spent ten years and more preparing himself for the very day he might be called to Yakov’s right hand. So why did it feel unbearably cruel, still, to be asked this? To kill the man Yakov once called _friend_ , once called _brother_?

_It’s time to prove yourself, Vitya. Do not fail me now._

Perhaps it was the look in Yakov’s eyes as he said it— _deal with it_ —resigned, remorseful, resolute. This was a man who had given up everything in the pursuit of power, who was giving up one more thing to keep it.

Was this what he would become? Did he want that?

He thought about _then_ —the cool, wet earth against his back as he slept; the howling of dogs at midnight; the desperate gnawing of hunger in the pit of his stomach, reminding him that he was _alive, alive, alive_ —and _now_ —his soft bed and expensive suits; tables that groaned beneath the weight of their bounty and cups that never ran empty; a warm smile tossed his way from friends, from _Family_ ; the gun in his hands a vow that he’d never be helpless again.

The answer, of course, was _yes_. He was a survivor, above all else, could no longer imagine turning back and refusing to get in that car.

Something flickered in the window. A flame caught in the dark, almost invisible through the sheets of pouring rain, before winking out of sight just as quick. A person stepped into view: creased brows, sagging cheeks, lips drawn tight at the end of a slim, black cigarette. It was Bariev, standing in-between his crosshairs like a gift.

Viktor could do it now, he realized, as he had done many times before. This was as clean a shot as he would get, and it would take less than a second to finish the job—not long enough for the target to feel it, that split second between _alive_ and _dead_.

So why did his finger tremble against the trigger?

He took a deep, steadying breath and closed his eyes. The choice seemed so simple when he first took the job. But this was no stranger, no real threat; this was a man whose weakness drove him to desperation, whose greatest fault was being too loose with his money and pleasure. Bariev up and hid the moment he began to suspect that his time was up, scrambling to get himself out of Yakov’s reach. But it was too little, too late. Viktor was too good to just let him go.

Wasn’t he? Viktor could turn away, walk out of that building and let him live a little longer. Bariev had a train booked out of the city tomorrow, and then a flight out of the country, after which Viktor was sure he’d keep running and running until no one could follow from home. Bariev was a slippery man, one who excelled at disappearing; once gone, he would never darken their doorstep again. All Viktor had to do was lie—tell Yakov that he’d finished the job, took care of the body himself, and carry that secret to his grave. A final act of mercy. 

He made his choice, opened his eyes, and pulled the trigger.

The glass shattered. Bariev’s head blew back and out of sight. Viktor didn’t bother to check, knew at once that the target was dead. He reached into his pocket and took out his phone, dialing a well-worn number into the keypad as he called for clean-up. Georgi picked up the phone after only two rings. “Where should I pick up the package?”

He would stop by a shop before heading back. Some roses would do, as he offered his condolences to Yakov.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Mentions of prostitution; murder; gun violence.
> 
> **
> 
>  
> 
> _Shows up three weeks late to YoI Mafia Week, with a Starbucks._
> 
>  
> 
> Hello! I'm back lmao. Sorry for the delay. I suffered some health issues these last couple of weeks and I've been incredibly stressed. I'm working on a lot of things right now, both in fandom and in real life, so thank you always for your patience and kindness.
> 
> As always, thank you for your continued support! Your kudos, bookmarks, etc. mean everything to me. I love all your comments and I read them often, because you all are so nice and inspire me to write. Find me at my YOI blog [witchsbane](https://witchsbane.tumblr.com/) on tumblr if you wanna chat/ask me questions, and I made a [twitter](https://twitter.com/witchsbane) now too! Find out more about my writing and how to keep me plied with coffee by following me there.


End file.
